


Bound

by Sarah_Ellie



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Complete, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, One Shot, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:17:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Ellie/pseuds/Sarah_Ellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond never mentioned to anyone at MI6 what Silva had done to him while he was bound to that chair, except for Q.</p>
<p>In an attempt to move past it, Bond asks for Q's help. </p>
<p>Despite Q's deep reservations, he agrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is un-beta'd and while does not reference any specific rape/non-con details, it could still be triggering. Also, be aware that Q's situation can be construed as dub-con.   
>  (Just want to cover all the bases).

Q slowly pulled his belt from around his waist and held the warm weight in his hands. Bond was sitting in a wooden chair in the middle of the bedroom, shirtless, looking at the floor. 

“Bond, I don’t know about this.” Q said uncertainly. 

“Just bloody do it, Q.” Bond snapped, looking up. Q took a deep breath, and approached the agent, loathing the conversation that had led them to that moment. 

___

“I need you to tie me up.” Bond said. He and Q were a few drinks in, sitting in the dark corner of a very crowded pub. 

Q had been taking a pull from his beer and choked at Bond’s words. 

“What? Why in the bloody hell do you need that?” Q asked, setting his bottle down on the highly-polished wooden table. He looked at the slightly older agent, whose blue eyes flashed around the room briefly before returning to Q. 

“Because I trust you.” Bond said, tapping the top of his glass. “And ever since Silva…”

“Right.” Q said, looking away slightly. 

Bond hadn’t shared all of the details of his time on Silva’s island with MI6. He had disclosed his capture, being bound on the chair, and Silva’s flirtations. He had discussed at length the events in the courtyard with Severine. 

But he had not mentioned everything that had happened while Bond was tied to the chair. These details he had only shared with Q, and even then, it had taken some time. Now, Q was the only one in MI6 who understood the panic that Bond underwent whenever an assignment led to his being bound. But M was starting to ask questions, and Bond was determined to move past the trauma. 

“You have to promise me that you’ll do as I say.” Bond said, still gazing at Q.

“I promise.”

\---

Q walked behind Bond, took his wrists in his hands, and looped his belt around them. He watched the muscles in Bond’s back and shoulders tense as the leather cut close into his skin. Bond’s breath was ragged and uneven, and Q wanted nothing more than to unbind him immediately. 

“Bond, I don’t-“ Q had no idea what to do next. 

“Touch me.” Bond grunted. 

“James, I don’t know if I should be the one to-“

“I can’t let anyone else do this. Q, I’m sorry, but please.”

Q reached down and intertwined his hands with the leather around James’ wrists. He leaned his forehead against the hollow that was formed in between Bond’s shoulders and took a steadying breath. His fingers worked into the leather so that he was touching the delicate skin inside of Bond’s wrist. He stroked his fingers in small circles in an attempt at comfort. Then, slowly, he began to work his way up James’ arms and over his shoulders; spreading his hands to cover the smooth muscles and scarred skin. 

He listened to Bond’s breath, which was huffing in short, staccato bursts as Q moved his fingers across Bond’s collarbone and lower down. After a few moments, Q stepped out from behind Bond and kneeled in front of him. 

“I’ll stop as soon as you tell me to.” Q said softly, placing his hands on Bond’s bare abdomen. He winced when Bond shifted; his entire body was tightened and conflicted between aversion and acceptance. The muscles in his neck bulged and his jaw was set. Q noticed that Bond had wrapped his ankles around the legs of the chair and was gripping them tightly. 

Bond only shook his head when Q repeated his promise to stop. With a sinking feeling, Q took his hands off of Bond’s abs. He tried to keep his heart from breaking when Bond’s body relaxed with physical relief at the absence of his touch. But then Q placed his hands on Bond’s knees, and a surprised grunt escaped Bond’s lips, and all Q felt was heat and rage and anger at Raul Silva. He suddenly wished that the bastard was alive, if only so that he could be killed again. 

Powering through the moment, Q ran his hands up Bond’s legs and almost vomited when Bond began to sob. They were tearless, and quiet, but utterly recognizable and completely devastating. Q kept his hands where they were, and began to whisper apologies to James like a mantra, a prayer. 

“Take them off.” Bond said quietly in a wrecked voice. He shifted his hips forward slightly so that Q knew what he meant. 

“No.” Q said.

“Q. You promised.” 

And he had. So Q unbuttoned the fly on Bond’s trousers and un-zippered them as well, slowly pulling them down to Bond’s ankles-which were still wrapped around the legs of the chair. Gently, Q wrapped his hands around one ankle to release it, and then did the same with the other, so that he could toss the trousers aside on the floor. 

Bond now sat in the chair, bound, rigid, and in only his boxer briefs. 

“James-“

“Fuck me.” Bond rasped, not looking up from the floor.

“No.” Q said, jerking his hands away from Bond. 

“I can’t think about Silva when I’m like this Q.” Bond said desperately, and Q understood precisely what deluded mindset Bond was currently engaging him in. “And if someone’s going to fix it, I need it to be you.”

“James, please-“

“I’m asking a lot.” Bond said, desperately. “But I need this.” He looked up at Q, and the protest died in Q’s throat. 

Q couldn’t think of anything to say. Instead, he placed a kiss squarely in the center of Bond’s forehead, and slowly began to touch and kiss his way down Bond’s neck, chest, and arms. He kept his hands on Bond’s leg; rubbing up and down the length of his thighs. When he had come back up to press his lips against Bond’s, he kissed him hard. The same moment that their lips clashed, their teeth parted and their tongues began to skirt over one another’s; Q hooked his thumbs through Bond’s boxers and pulled them down, leaving Bond naked on the chair before the agent had had a chance to think about it. 

“Fuck.” Bond breathed, straining his arms against the belt that bound him. 

“You’re okay.” Q whispered, kneeling between Bond’s powerful legs so that he could be at least somewhat vulnerable to Bond, if Bond so desired. He reached up and stroked through Bond’s hair, down his cheek, and he rose to place another kiss on his lips. “I promise you, you’re okay.”

Bond took a deep breath and exhaled. He nodded, and shifted in the chair. Q could see the strain in Bond’s jaw as he tried to force himself to relax. Cautiously, Q ran his hands over Bond’s shoulders again, repeating the motions from earlier. 

Eventually, Q worked his way down in between Bond’s legs. He had been dreading this part, but he couldn’t decide whether the thought of extending the experience or touching Bond while the agent was in so much distress was more undesirable, and had chosen the latter purely on instinct. 

“James, talk to me.” Q muttered, running his long fingers over Bond’s cock and balls. His touch had stirred something in Bond, but he wasn’t getting much more of a response. 

“Q, please just get on with it.” Bond said through gritted teeth. Q realized suddenly that he himself was so tight and rigid with anxiety that his jaw was screaming in pain. He let go of Bond and stood, flushing at the flash of frustration and panic that flickered across Bond’s face. 

“Just… give me a moment, okay?” Q said breathlessly; running his hands through his hair. He crossed his arms over his chest and then paced a little before turning towards the wall and aiming a hard punch into the door. A dent was left in the wood and Q’s hand came away bloody, but he ignored it and used the adrenaline to level two more punches, more or less to the same spot. He let out a groan of pain and anger and returned to Bond, who looked startled and ashamed. 

“I’m sorry.” Bond said when Q returned to him. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, James.” Q said, holding Bond’s cheek with his shaking, bleeding hand and kissing him deeply. “Nothing that that bastard did was your bloody fault. But we’re not going to do this, okay?” 

For a moment, Bond looked like he might protest, but then he looked at Q’s bloodied, swelling hand and then back to Q’s face. After a moment he nodded, resigned. 

Q reached behind Bond’s back and undid the buckle. The leather belt fell to the floor and lay, abandoned, as Bond and Q both moved over to the bed. Bond retrieved his boxer briefs and slid them back onto his body, and Q stripped off his shirt to bind it around his bleeding hand. Q sat with his back against the headboard and wrapped the arm with his uninjured hand around Bond, who rested against his chest. They lay like that for a long time, trying to relax themselves in the presence of one another. 

“We’ll figure it out.” Q said after awhile. He knew that Bond was bone-tired, and that his own hand was almost certainly broken, but he had no desire to get up.

“I promise you, Bond. We’ll figure it out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated very, very much!


End file.
